


Reading Between the Lines

by iamanidhwal



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Abigail - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Angst, Banter, Bedelia is an editor, Bottom Will Graham, Chesapeake Ripper, Dark Will, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal is charming as always, Jack is an editor, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Murder, Power Bottom Will Graham, Prompt Fic, Sass, Sassy Will Graham, Sexual Fantasy, Slow Burn, Top Hannibal Lecter, Tumblr Prompt, Violence, Will change maturity tags later, Will is a recluse as always, Writer AU, Writing, prompt-based, sass and ass, sex later on, write
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2019-08-26 03:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16673617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamanidhwal/pseuds/iamanidhwal
Summary: Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter are both fledgling writers in the crime genre; Will writes about an FBI special agent running to catch her white whale, but her moral compass spirals in the process. Hannibal writes about a witty serial killer, always two steps ahead of the FBI. Fans of both authors think they are either rivals or two people flirting in a pool of fictional blood and crime. "The Murder Husbands", they call them.But suddenly, crime scenes from both of their books start popping up around Baltimore, Maryland. Will's reclusive attitude and Hannibal's indifference start making them the primary suspects in the string of murders. Can both exonerate themselves, define the line where fiction and reality separate? Or are they hiding something much more sinister?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This starts off all innocent and fluffy; the murders will follow.
> 
> \--
> 
> WRITER AU! I found this prompt on otpprompts.tumblr.com. It was supposed to be a oneshot. But I twisted it to become a multi-chap just because I can ;) Changed some details too, like the dating editors. Hope you'll stay for the ride!
> 
> Original prompt:
> 
> "Imagine A and B being famous authors who write books that are in genres that are the opposite of the other’s books. A and B’s fans claim the two writers are rivals even though they never met.
> 
> One day, B’s editor had met A’s editor, and the two editors are dating. Push comes to shove, and the anti-social B was dragged to A’s meet-and-greet.
> 
> What happens next is up to you."
> 
> Prologue is short af but I'll write longer in the following chapters!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Graham evades the spotlight.  
> Jack drags him under one anyway.

His phone had been ringing for about an hour now. Will swore over a sore head and his third cup of coffee. He had hired the legendary, tenacious Jack Crawford as his editor and agent, but this was just fucking ridiculous. Out of his empathy, he couldn't expect that Jack was as stubborn as a bulldog.

 

He grimaced. No, he’s a damn husky. Stubborn and needs to be perpetually goaded with treats, lest he unlearns his tricks. The mental image of Jack being nothing but a goofy dog made him grin, if for a little while. It slowly faded, however, knowing the true nature of Jack's actions.

 

He thought that his editor would stop after a few rings went unanswered, but Jack knew him all too well. Will was the type of person who shows up exactly when and where he was absolutely needed, do what was necessary, then disappear from the public eye again. He was a writer, for God’s sake; not a damn celebrity like the Kardashians. Will personally likes it this way; he had control of his life and time, but apparently he wasn't allowed that indulgence of freedom.

 

Winston whined a little, nosing his hand and snapping him out of his train of thought. Out of the whole pack, Winston was the one who felt his distress the strongest. Sighing, he ruffled the dog’s ears and reluctantly picked up the phone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dog's tail wag, as if in approval of Will's action. “What is it, Jack.”

 

“Good morning to you, too.” Jack replied icily, not even hiding the frustration in his voice. He was an open book, as always; perpetually easy to read. 

 

“It was a rough night.” Will lied easily, looking back at the coffee pot and trying to gauge if there was enough coffee for another cup. His migraine was only somewhat dissipating. “Slept right through your calls.”

 

“I don’t believe you.”

 

“When have you ever believed me, Jack?”

 

“When have you ever answered your phone on the first ring?” Jack shot back.

 

“Touché.” Will hummed and got up to pour the last of his coffee into the mug. “What is it?”

 

“You’ve been nominated for an award.” Jack started matter-of-factly. “The Frederick Chilton Award for Best Up-And-Coming Novelist.”

 

Will grimaced at the thought. An award. That meant an awarding ceremony, and he already knew Jack was going to force him to socialize again. “That’s a wordy award to receive. Almost as if Chilton were the one saying it.”

 

“I shudder to hear it come from his mouth.” Jack acquiesced, “But it is a big award. You’ll have to be in the awarding ceremony with the other nominee. You know, in case you win.”

 

“Why do I have to go, Jack? Countless award shows have been organized wherein nominees where absent. Hell, even winners sometimes weren’t physically present to receive the award. And who even thinks I can win an award in the first place?”

 

“You’ll go because you need something to feed the press.” As if Jack could see through his phone Will roll his eyes, he soldiered on. “You’re up against a quite famous author, too. And he’s been in the spotlight since day one, because his agent, Du Maurier, has got a cesspool of calling cards.”

 

Will groaned, dreading the idea of his competitor for the award. “Don’t say it's -”

 

“It’s Hannibal Lecter.”

 

Will inhaled sharply, closing his eyes. Lecter was an author who had surfaced quite recently, writing about the same genre as Will. They have a big shared audience, and those who appreciate them both can tell that they were born rivals. Will writes about a brazen young detective with moral streak, delivering righteous vengeance. Lecter writes about an intelligent serial killer that evades the police and FBI, always at least two steps ahead. 

Online forums created by their fans agree that Will’s and Lecter’s were a kind of open flirtation to the world when read alone. Read them together and it was like reading bloody, murderous love letters – of Will’s protagonist, chasing her white whale as it sends her and her mentality spiraling down, and the charming, enigmatic serial killer that was Lecter’s protagonist, wanting to strip the FBI bare and expose all the skeletons in their closet. “All that’s left is for Graham’s protagonist to actually be in Lecter’s novels and it would be the perfect cat and mouse," they mused, with many assenting. 

 

“Will.” Jack’s voice brought him back, and he physically shook his head to rid of the thoughts of his fanbase. “I need you to promise me you’ll attend.”

 

“Why bother, Jack? Lecter will win the award anyway.” He grumbled. “I’m not in this business to get awards.”

 

“Recognition is a good thing, Will. Think it over. I’ll text you the details.” There was a pause, before Jack ventured with his final card. “Alana Bloom will be there.”

 

 _Oh, you bastard,_ Will thought, wincing at the very sound of Alana’s name. She was his old agent, and although literary agents were not supposed to be affected by the works of their clients, Will’s did, and in a negative manner. Alana was more into self-help books, and her venture to fiction with Will was experimental at best. It didn’t work for her, and she left him out to dry, checking in in the guise of friendship.

 

“Tell me you’ll think about it.”

 

Will pinched the bridge of his nose. This was going to go very badly, but if he didn't say anything, Jack would hound him for days until it came to the point of literally dragging Will to the ceremony venue the day of. He let out a small sigh, feeling that he was about to enter the lion's den.

 

“Fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal preens under the same spotlight as Will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still short, but trust me, the next chapter will have the murder husbands fanbase in-fic crying to the gods

“It seems as though you have been nominated for the Frederick Chilton Award,” Du Maurier mused, glasses perched at the tip of her nose as she swiped at her tablet slowly. Legs crossed under her knees and hair coiffed and pin-curled, she sat across the chaise lounge as Hannibal pushed in a small dainty cart with two small plates of cake and a pot of jasmine tea.

 

“Then I think I should get the libation for a more celebratory note.” Hannibal hummed in return, amused at the thought of Chilton seething were he to go up on stage to receive it from the man himself.

 

Chilton was an old ‘colleague’ from Hannibal’s past life in the psychiatric field; his departure to pursue writing as a medium of expression was scorned by Frederick, who had done the same years prior and was keen on telling anybody who would listen that Hannibal copied him. Frederick’s success came quickly in the form of a one-hit-wonder of a novel, but his fanbase left him fairly quickly after he drove them off with incessant arrogance and peacocking.  Hannibal didn’t know, nor had he wanted to know, how exactly an award for up-and-coming novelists was named after Chilton, but there it is.

 

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” Du Maurier looked at him sagely, then put the tablet aside to start on her cake slice. “You’re up against quite the competitor.”

 

“Budge?” Hannibal quipped, playing the inquisitive role when both of them knew he wasn’t interested in lowly competitors in the least. “That man’s comeback novel after five years of not showing his face has failed to capture audiences, as we foresaw.”

 

“It’s not Budge.” Du Maurier scoffed in mild disdain. "He is in no way up-and-coming, never was."

 

“Pray tell, Bedelia,” Hannibal lilted, charming smile equipped as he brought his teacup to his lips. “Who am I up against?”

 

“Hm, let me remember…A Mister Will Graham.”

 

“Ah.” He nodded, chuckling a little at the irony of the situation. He was well-informed of the difference in moral grounds of their two books – whereas Hannibal had sought to break stereotypical crime genre limitations by pitching a charismatic serial killer as his main protagonist, Graham had stayed safe within the lines with his protagonist, with the surprise being the mental instability riddling his heroine. He had actually enjoyed reading that particular book, and the way the book ended made it possible to have numerous sequels in the works.

 

His interest in Graham piqued even more when he tried searching him up to little success. For a man with profound debut success, he was an enigma in the press. There was no clear photo of him, and the only one that was passable made him look like a scruffy fisherman or new lumberjack that was in the wrong place at the wrong time. His Agent, the legendary Jack Crawford, took more space in his research. Hannibal was already sick of looking at his cocky gap-toothed grin.

“You’ve gone quiet.” Du Maurier’s slow intonations brought him back. “What are your thoughts on your competitor?”

 

“I have none.” When Bedelia raised an eyebrow, he explained further. “I know nothing of the author as he is shy from the press, I assume. But I have read his work and I see why he was nominated.”

 

“A reclusive writer.” She nodded, and Hannibal could already tell her cogs were already cranking on how to make the press eat up Hannibal from the first step he took in the awarding ceremony. “That won’t be too hard to spin, as he’s more likely to choose to not attending the ceremony altogether.”

 

“Perhaps his agent could simply drag him into the venue,” he pitched in, and he saw in her face the brief sliver of shock that passed when Bedelia realized it was Crawford he was talking about. “As for me, I will of course attend and behave.”

 

“I expect nothing less.”

 

 _Perfect._ Hannibal displayed a smile, already planning on how he’d introduce himself to his rival. “What are the details for the ceremony?”

 

* * *

 

“Jack,” Will outright whined. “I look like an idiot.”

 

“You _are_ an idiot, Will.” Jack mumbled back without pause, looking him up and down. “What kind of adult doesn’t own at least one suit for a black tie event?”

 

“The kind of adult that doesn’t partake in it unless absolutely needed,” Will sniped, flapping his arms. He had indulged Jack when he invited the man to go out and discuss the prospects for his sequel novel, but Jack had ulterior motives, dragging him into a bespoke shop before he could protest. He was made on to try suits with outrageous designs and he almost gawked at seeing himself with a coat that had peacock feather designs hand-embroidered down the body.

 

“You can’t show up to the award ceremony in a rented suit.” Jack said matter-of-factly, tapping his foot impatiently as they both waited for the tailor, Vincent, to come back with more designs. “I won’t have it.”

 

“Of course not.” Will said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “I was going to arrive in denim and plaid.”

 

Jack groaned and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, this is your first extended time to get into the press. And not just that, but to give you solid footing in the literary world.”

 

Will sighed. He knew Jack was right, but it still made him increasingly nervous with each passing day that he had to be half of the center of attention in the awarding ceremony. Winner or not, a nomination was enough bait to be hounded by photographers and feature writers, as well as earn the ire or admiration of other novelists who didn’t make the cut. The only thing he banked on to ease his nerves were the raving features of Hannibal and his natural charisma that commanded all eyes on the room be on him as soon as he stepped into view.

 

As Vincent came back with five more pieces for him to try on, Will went on auto-pilot, his thoughts still on Hannibal. He did look extremely charismatic – those facial features alone were sharp yet attractive; anyone wouldn’t be able to help themselves but stare. From a short interview during the press release of his book, Will noticed that the man was perfectly poised, and showed enough grace and control of his words. “Like a damned notorious politician,” he had thought of at that time, drinking the image of the man in his laptop screen.

 

Will was snapped out of his reverie as Vincent ‘ooh’ed quite loudly and Jack barked his approval. He checked himself in the mirror and flushed. He had worn a white coat with gold embroidered spirals around the body, and meticulous details in the cuffs and lapel.

  
“That looks wonderful.” Vincent hummed, nodding.

 

“It does.” Jack assented.

 

“I look like an angel.” Will deadpanned, turning around. He appreciated the detail, and he would be lying if he said that he didn’t like the way it made him look, how it contrasted with his dark curls framing his face. “But it’s… attention-seeking.”

 

“That’s exactly why it’s the one.” Jack nodded, and Vincent started taking Will’s measurements, pins at the ready. “You need to be on par with Hannibal Lecter. That man has a separate closet altogether just for his suits.”

 

Will sighed and shook his head. “I’m just going to look like a lost puppy in the venue.”

 

“Trust and believe in me.” Jack grumbled, showing a sliver of encouragement. “I’ll make sure you both get all the press time you deserve. Winner or not, you’ll be front and center. Just do me a favor, smile, wave, look people in the eye more –“ he dismissed Will’s scoff at that with a wave of his hand, “ – and for God’s sake, _mingle_.”

 

Will fake-shuddered at the thought of mingling, which earned him a slight rap on his rump from an annoyed Vincent, who nearly poked his backside with a pin. This was going to be a long event.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will needs a drink.  
> Hannibal needs an accomplice.

The venue was already buzzing with people by the time Hannibal and Bedelia arrived. Much as Hannibal was punctual to a T, Bedelia had yet again found it necessary to remind him that he need not be early, as he was not hosting one of his famous dinner parties in his Baltimore home, and that arriving 15 minutes early to the venue was _still_ too early. He had to choke down any arguments after that, knowing she was perfectly right.

 

For the past few days, however, little else was in Hannibal’s mind than the meeting of the enigma that is Will Graham. And although he was deceptively technologically-adept (a fact that shallow people crowding his social circles have a hard time processing), he kept perusing multiple search engines and, pray tell, social media platforms to try and find a more personal side of the man that interested him so much. He'd then give up, disappointed at having only found a generic author page most likely set up by Crawford, and some tweets regarding his book and recent nomination.

 

They arrived in Hannibal’s shiny Bentley, and  as he stepped out of the driver's side of the vehicle, he took the time to press any invisible creases and dust off his suit to feed the press. He had gone to get a new bespoke suit fitted from his usual tailor, and he did not disappoint – the all-black three-piece suit with a splash of thin gold stitching and a muted gold paisley tie made him look more appealing. Ever the gentleman, he went ahead to the other side of the car to open the door for Bedelia. She went out gingerly, her dress an airy light-gray, which she paired with a grieving widow’s veil tucked into a neat curl of her hair and a pair of dark heels with a lining of silver. They paused briefly for pictures before walking inside the venue.

 

Hannibal loathed at the sound of rambunctious laughter in a black-tie event, but that was exactly how he was greeted on his first step into the room. It was a portly man he recognized as Franklin Froideveaux, literary agent to Tobias Budge, that offered him such eae abuse, but as the crowd ogled at Hannibal and Bedelia, it died down pretty quickly. Internally, Hannibal was purring in satisfaction at how much attention he was getting (as he should be) and he excused himself to start mingling with older peers while Bedelia excused herself to drink in silence in the table for literary agents. She didn’t need to babysit Hannibal, after all, unlike the other agents with fledgling young writers in the scene. She felt that Hannibal could very well behave himself with his tenacity and ironclad self-control.

 

Froideveaux, to Hannibal's dismay, waddled up to him and rudely interrupted him mid-speech to his colleagues. “Doctor Lecter, what a surprise!”

 

In a fraction of a second, his mouth thinned in annoyance, before he turned to the portly man. “Good evening, Mr. Froideveaux. Now how would it be a surprise for me to show up during an awarding ceremony in which I was nominated?”

 

A flush crept on Froideveaux’s neck and cheeks, and the other man took out a handkerchief to wipe away the sweat once he knew that he was caught in his slip-up. “Congratulations, by the way. The Chilton award! Wow, that must be something.”

 

“Indeed it is,” a voice interjected icily even before Hannibal could say a curt thanks. He didn’t even need to turn to know who it was, and Tobias Budge came into view, taking his place beside Froideveaux, eyes reptilian cold and smile equally devoid of warmth or sincerity. “Congratulations, Doctor Lecter. I’m assuming already that you shall be the winner of the evening, as your competitor is simply a place filler.”

 

“I thank you both for your cordiality.” Hannibal replied smoothly, not willing to partake in Budge's snide commentary on Will Graham. That was only for the rude and shallow-minded people to peruse, and Hannibal tuned out rudeness like white noise.

 

“Tobias here was doing good, too!” Froideveaux backpedaled, only now remembering that he was a literary agent and nothing more; that Tobias Budge was the one the authors would be more interested in, and he happily regaled the updates in Tobias’ self-help book, which was in no way riveting, much less invited.

 

Hannibal was in the middle of sipping his wine to feign interest, when the crowd fell into a hush once more as they saw who walked in. He turned as well, in mild interest, and immediately found himself staring as a curly-haired man in a white-and-gold embroidered suit tentatively walked in unchaperoned. And although his clothing, his lithe figure and the way the curls framed his face were an image of innocence, he noticed something else. Will Graham’s eyes, although hidden behind simple black-framed glasses, were a piercing grey-blue, and looking in it he found a steely resolve that he admittedly admired.

 

All thoughts of Froideveaux and Budge faded into the whole environment, and when Will finally looked up and locked eyes with him from across the room, everything else went into a vacuum. Later on, Hannibal would fondly think of that moment of seeing Will as witnessing the most beautiful human being he had ever laid eyes on.

* * *

 Will thanked his stars that Vincent had thought of everything in his suit. The intricacy of the design didn’t show how tense Will’s shoulders were, nor how stiff his legs felt while walking down from the entrance to the banquet table. Upon arrival, he had to acquiesce that getting a more luxurious-looking suit was a good move, as it was a sea of black coats and bowties. Will would either be mistaken for a guest or a waiter, and would look like a fool once introduced.

 

Jack had arrived with him, and – at Will’s request – his wife, Bella Crawford, citing a promise he made long ago to the good-natured woman of bringing her to a party the soonest she’d beat cancer. And here she was radiating life three months after doctors deemed her cancer-free. He didn’t want to ruin the moment between the Crawfords, and had instead excused himself to go inside first to peruse the restroom.

 

He had splashed cold water on his face, careful to not get any on his suit, then looked at himself in the mirror.

 

 _Come on, Graham,_ he told himself, slapping each of his cheeks a little to get him to ground himself faster. _It’s just a stupid celebration. In a few hours, it’ll be over. Just stick to Jack and Bella, or maybe Alana if you’re in the mood. Don’t let it get to you._

He closed his eyes and quickly imagined himself back in his house in Wolf Trap, a glass of whisky in hand, his pack of dogs lazing around his feet, the snow falling outside of his home and a warm fire crackling away in the hearth. He breathed slowly until his heart calmed down, then put on his glasses and stepped out into the main hall, jaw set.

 

For what it’s worth, Will felt oddly satisfied that he didn’t face-plant on the ground, but he was shocked to say the least that his entrance was witnessed by nearly everyone present. Never mind that he was a nobody – by the looks of authors and agents present alike and by the hushed susurrus within the crowd, he wasn’t a nobody anymore.

 

But the longer the stares didn’t waver, the more he found that he was nervous from head to toe. A slight buzzing started in his brain, and he desperately wished that Jack was beside him to steer him to safety. He looked for a familiar face in the sea of unblinking strangers, _someone, anyone –_

 

His eyes met a pair of hooded, maroon eyes in the middle of the room. Held him, pinned him down; grounded him until his tunnel vision ceased and he was able to breathe. After a few minutes he realized that people had gone on with their lives as usual, and when he tried to look for the person who helped him out of his impending anxiety attack, he found no one.

 

“Will!” He was shaken out of his thoughts as the first notes of a subtle Jasmine perfume wafted in his vicinity, followed closely behind by the one and only Alana Bloom.

 

“Alana, hey,” was all he could say, voice still weak. Smiling and offering him a hug which he gladly took, Alana didn’t look all that different. Chocolate curls still fell in lovely waves down her shoulders, eyes and smile with good intentions, Will’s former literary agent was lovely in a designer wrap dress, carrying a small triangular pouch. “How are you?”

 

“Good, and I expect you to be better.” She laughed good-naturedly. “Being nominated for the Frederick Chilton award, and all.”

 

“Well, what can I say. With an agent like Jack, failure would be disastrous.” He said a little saltily, and a flash of hurt crossed Alana’s face before he realized what his words could’ve been misunderstood and he clambered to right his mistake. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean –“

 

Somebody cleared their throat, and Alana wasted no time in changing the subject altogether. “Will, I’d like you to meet Margot Verger. Margot, this is Will Graham,” she mused, smiling up at the blonde woman beside her.

 

“Verger?” Will blinked, taking the woman’s appearance. She had a face that reminded Will of a cherub – wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked, and small-chinned. But the straight, platinum blond hair, the harsh red of her lipstick, and the dark pantsuit that she was wearing, framed her face and made her exude authority that, no doubt, she needed to reign in at all costs. How could he have possible thought that the woman was another author that had hired Alana as an agent? “As in - ?”

 

“Of Verger Publishing Press, yes.” Margot finished for him, rolling her eyes like he should have known better. But before Will could apologize, she flashed a small smile at him. “If only I could be known for anything else.”

 

“Verger Publishing is still one of the most long-enduring publishing houses in the game,” he complimented. Although true, Verger Publishing, ever traditional, had seen better days, and had dawdled behind more modern companies who had switched to digital means. And with the passing of administration to the two younger Verger siblings, of which Margot comprises half, most people now see a shift in priorities and an expansion of publishing material. “No doubt it will endure for more years to come.”

 

“Thank you for your optimism.” She smiled, then extended her hand for Will to shake, which he did so politely. “It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Graham. And I believe congratulations are in order for your nomination.”

 

Alana positively beamed in pride, and Will couldn’t help but flush before stammering out his thanks. “To be honest, I didn’t even half-expect it, much less to win, if I’m against the likes of _the_ Hannibal Lecter.”

 

“Oh, come, now, Mr. Graham.” Margot hummed, plucking a glass of red wine from a roaming waiter and swilling it, arms crossed. “Modesty does not become you.”

 

He balked. “Excuse me?”

 

“I mean, to some extent, humility is a virtue.” She continued, sniffing the contents of her wine before sipping it. “Let me give you some advice, Mr. Graham. Modesty is good, especially for an author’s public image. But not here.” She glanced around, motioning her glass of wine to mean the entire assembly present. “Not in this room, and certainly not in this field. Everyone can write, but not everyone can write _good._ Even less can write _great._ So if you receive any merit, by all means, be proud and have confidence. You have willingly entered the lion’s den, and have felled a great beast for food. Do you roll over for the old-timers to take over, or do you fight and stand your ground?”

 

Will was left speechless for a few beats, before Margot laughed, breaking the seriousness of the matter. “I apologize. I think you need a drink after that.”

 

He laughed and agreed, before excusing himself from the two of them to make a beeline to the open bar, Margot’s words of advice still floating in his mind. He was deep in his own thoughts to notice that another figure in the crowd followed him across the room. 

* * *

 

“Whisky,” mumbled Will, “Neat.”

 

When the bartender gave him back his glass with only a finger of alcohol, he raised his eyebrow incredulously, only to be met with a half-apologetic bartender. “Sorry, rules in place. Last year, someone emptied my stocks before the ceremony could even begin. Ended up being shitfaced and puking on his whole table.”

 

“Fair enough.” He mumbled, giving him thanks and adding a tip to his payment, before leaning back against the bar to gaze around the room. It was better here; he had a better vantage point and could watch the others without looking obtrusive.

 

From far away he could discern Margot Verger in the crowd, talking to an enigmatic, equally blond man that he surmised was her twin brother, Mason, and the obnoxious laughter that escaped his mouth confirmed it. But the one thing he noticed was how Alana kept hovering by her side. From what Will could tell, it wasn’t unwanted from Margot, and the latter made sure that Alana was a part of the conversation as well.

 

Taking a mental note to ask Alana about her recent establishment of connections to the Verger heirs, his eyes scanned the room for more familiar faces. There was Jack and Bella, finally joining the crowd and seating themselves at the very front to wait for the event to start. Bedelia Du Maurier was sitting alone, wine glass in hand but no sip taken, looking dreadfully bored. And a myriad of other familiar faces, he wanted to make sure to greet once the after-party commenced.

 

“A glass of Canard-Duchêne, please.” A deep, accented voice beside him asked the bartender, tongue rolling the perfect French inflections, and Will quickly dropped his eyes to his glass, making sure his glasses were down as well. He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks just hearing the man speak French. But when he found that he recognized that voice from a short recording, he sipped his whisky and tentatively looked up, daring his mind be wrong.

 

 _There he is,_ he mused to himself, and Will quickly put the image of Hannibal in his mind so he could pick it apart with ease. Hair teased to perfection, cheekbones sharp and high, lips thin, his air and physique was peak European. Hannibal looked even better in person, his suit of black and gold contrasting with the color of his skin and hair, and the whole ensemble fitted to his shape exquisitely.

 

Standing so close to the man he’d practically stalked online the past couple of days, Will realizes, horrified, that he didn’t know what to say. Was ‘good evening’ a good greeting? It wouldn’t open up the conversation at all. How boring must he be if that’s the only thing he can muster up? Did he even _want_ a prolonged conversation in the first place?

 

He stopped when he realized what Hannibal was doing: leaning forward against the bar as the bartender busied himself to provide the drink, Hannibal’s face was tilted ever so slightly at him, face neutral except for the minuscule changes that Will could see. A slight narrowing of the eyes, a flaring of the nostrils, an inch of a lazy smirk showing on the other man’s thin face.

 

“Yes?” Hannibal asked, a little defensive, a little challenging.

 

And for the life of him, Will couldn't back down from a challenge to anyone. Walls up instantly, he just snorted a little and hid behind his glasses again. “Just checking whether you’d actually get your drink. Sounds too fancy to be available.”

 

“Oh, I know for certain it is.” And just when he said that, the bartender gives him a flute of sparkling champagne, the Canard-Duchêne, Will guessed. Hannibal faces him fully this time, smiling in amusement. “Because I was the one who brought the bottle.”

 

 _Cheeky._ The word entered Will’s mind in a flash, as he drank more whisky to calculate his next words. _Arrogant. Haughty. Know-it-all. Show-off._

 

“Is that the common etiquette these days?” Will teased, laughing a bit sharply. “Wouldn’t it be rude to the caterers to know that their stocks were not _worthy_ enough of a singular guest?”

 

Hannibal hummed in thought. “I suppose you are correct, but only if they knew of the matter.” He smiled at the bartender, who smiled back to resume wiping down the table.

 

Will couldn't fight the amused smile that rose as the reality dawned on him in a few beats. "Did you  _bribe_ the bartender to sneak in a bottle?”

 

“It’s a foolproof plan. I pay for indiscretion for my more refined tastes, and the caterer and guests are none the wiser.”

 

“Except for me.” Will tilted his head.

 

“Except for you.” Hannibal mirrored him, eyes boring into him. Will couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

 

“And I only knew because you showed me.” Hannibal’s eyebrows raised in acquiesce.

 

“I also implore on you a favor.” The taller man said. “That you would not tell on me.”

 

Will raised an eyebrow, smirking in teasing chagrin. “Did you just make me an accessory to the crime?”

 

“Even better.” Hannibal grinned widely, almost feral to Will, maroon eyes twinkling with mirth and amusement as he slid the bartender a hundred dollar bill across the countertop. “Accomplice.”

 

“You madman.” Will couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Out of all the people in this assembly, you choose your rival to be your accomplice in this petty little crime of yours. What is to be made of that, Doctor Lecter?”

 

At this, Hannibal leaned closer to him, again pinning him down with his eyes alone. After a few frenzied heartbeats inside of Will’s ribcage, stepping back and getting crowded against the bar, the older man just breathes four words that send Will’s mind scrambling for explanation.

 

“What, indeed, Mister Graham."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Difference between an accessory and being an accomplice: an accessory helps the criminal /after/ the crime has been done (e.g. getting rid of evidence). An accomplice, meanwhile, is present /during/ the time the crime is being done.
> 
> And in this case, it is only then and there at the assembly that Hannibal pays the bartender for his indiscretion. By having Will knowledgeable of the 'crime' of sneaking in a bottle of champagne even before the financial transactions signalled the end of the crime itself, Will is, therefore, an accomplice.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal stares.  
> Will tries not to stare back.
> 
> (Also, Chilton is an ass; but we already knew that.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tobias is vile, Frank is annoying, Bedelia has her nose up, and Chilton is an asshole. Go team!
> 
> This chapter is over 2000 words long, and I intended it to be more, but I figured the end of the chapter is a good place to break it off until the next. For suspense. My amusement and your frustration :^)

* * *

**_“ICYMI: Writer’s Ball 2019”_ **

 

_The time has come to yet again acknowledge some exemplary literary pieces and authors for the past year. The Writer’s Ball is an event held every year, inviting authors, agents, publishers and enthusiasts alike from all over the United States to partake in this celebration of literary excellence._

_Notable local guests of the evening are Dr. Frederick Chilton, scientific researcher at Johns Hopkins University and author of one-hit-wonder novel “Spider-Web”; twins Mason and Margot Verger, co-executives of Verger Publishing Press; and the fan-popular “Murder Husbands” couple, consisting of doctor/psychiatrist/part-time FBI profiler Dr. Hannibal Lecter, and an ever-elusive yet groundbreaking Mister Will Graham._

_The Writer’s Ball doubles as an awarding ceremony for those authors who have shown exemplary literary work for the past year, with as many awards as there are literary genres. However, the highest award of the night is the “Frederick Chilton Award For Best Up-And-Coming Novelist”, where this year’s nominees – Dr. Lecter and Mr. Graham – have surprised the assembly, as the two finalists have debut novels belonging to the same genre._

_More on this story as it develops. In the meantime, check out the pictures below!_

 

**COMMENTS (9):**

 

 **gone_girl19** : Aaaaah Murder Husbands!!!!!! <3

 

 **red-riot** : chilton having an award named after him but can’t follow up his own novel is tea

     **kentmere1000** replied to **red-riot** : even the writer of the article agrees! the shadeee

 

 **ix-Flambada** : Murder Husbands? @ **gone_girl19**

     **gone_girl19** replied to **ix-Flambada** : Graham and Lecter are GODS of crime novels! Writing style on point and juxtaposed perfectly against each other

    **redriot** replied to **ix-Flambada** : they’ve been shipped by the fanbases ever since a local bookstore put them both at the top of their recommended list; ideologically speaking, they’re rivals

    **ix-Flambada** replied to **redriot** : really???? Because judging from the last picture, they look awfully friendly and close…

    **gone_girl19** replied to **ix-Flambada** : right?!??!?!!?!!!!!

 **Grenlexi:** is no one going to comment on their _complementary suits?!_  

* * *

“Will.” Jack grumbled, glaring at him from the other side of the table. “Stop that.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“ _That.”_ He growled, pointing below the table, and Will stopped once he realized his nervous tic of his legs shaking had been disturbing the whole table.

 

Bella smiled at him in sympathy and patted his shoulder. Ever so maternal, Will had read his manuscript to her many times while she was recovering. Will needed to hear opinions from someone outside the literary world, and Bella (and in a secret way, Jack) had appreciated the company. Her hands massaged little circles on his shoulder as she asked, “Are you nervous?”

 

“Of course.” He nodded, swallowing a little as the hostess doled out the names of the nominees for each category. “Just my luck that mine and Doctor Lecter’s is in the very last.”

 

“You seemed quite friendly with him earlier,” she teased. “I saw you at the bar, giggling like you two had the world to yourselves. Has the fire of rivalry burnt out and have been replaced by something else?”

 

Will sputtered, his cheeks coloring. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

 

Jack glowered at them both to stop talking, and Bella winked at him to release some tension before taking her attention back to the matter at hand.

 

Hannibal, on the other hand, was paying rapt attention to Will, who was seated in the table in front of him. The tables were given three chairs each, and Will had his own table with both Crawfords, while he and Bedelia shared a table with Tobias Budge, of all people. He wasn’t invited, nor was he wanted, but the other man took his seat like it was predisposed to him, anyway. Bedelia merely raised an eyebrow at the rude assumption, and Hannibal’s nostrils had flared in disgust, but nothing more. Annoyingly, Froideveaux had the gall to scrape up his seat from a table far away (no doubt, Tobias had attempted to lose the man) and plopped himself down, crowding everyone else in the table with not so much as an ‘excuse me’, or a ‘sorry’ or even a ‘Is my presence particularly wanted in this circle?’

 

Not much else had happened from the bar, as they were quickly ushered to their seats as the event started, but Hannibal couldn’t help it. His eyes strayed over the mop of dark curls that had already broken free of their weak gel restraints, watched intently as Will’s face crinkled in polite laughter at the host’s attempt at humor. Upon sitting down, Bedelia had looked him up and down in what could be her version of clear and open disdain.

 

“I see you’ve been talking to Mister Graham,” she said matter-of-factly as she sipped from her wine glass. Her voice did not waver from her usual, drawling monotone, but the tell-tale twitch in her crossed legs suggested veiled impatience.

 

Hannibal smoothed his suit and pointedly ignored Froideveaux and Budge on the other side of the table. “I believe it was appropriate.”

 

“Are you sizing up your rival?” Bedelia turned to him, one manicured eyebrow raised at him.

 

“No,” he hummed, drinking from his own flute of champagne. “Merely acquainting myself with a colleague.”

 

“Acquaintances happen between two people of equal footing.” Bedelia mused, turning her head away from Hannibal and paying more attention to the stage. “And you and Mister Graham are worlds apart.”

 

This didn’t sit well with him, but he didn’t know why. He would have wanted to ask for an explanation from her, but Froideveaux excited chattering brought him back to the present.

 

“ _Lovely_ lady,” He was saying, clapping as a slim woman in a body-hugging emerald dress went up the stage to receive her award. Hannibal noticed that her dress was plain save for the asymmetrical shoulder cut and the dangerously high slit. Her wily eyes looked sharp, her smile to match.

 

“You’d think they’d be more reserved in a black-tie event.” Bedelia frowned as the woman on the stage enthusiastically waved at the crowd and sent air kisses to men at the back who were most certainly cheering for her the loudest.

 

“Beverly Katz is a newcomer, so she gets admirers,” Froideveaux offered, his ham hands red but not stopping until the woman left the stage, holding her silver trophy of a quill aloft over her head in victory. “She writes non-fiction.”

 

“On what subject?”

 

“The difference between first-wave Asian-American immigrants fleeing from war and first-wave Asian-Americans who immigrated for prospects of profit,” Budge informed them, smiling wolfishly. Internally, Hannibal would’ve curled his lip at such open and profound display of lasciviousness. “I guess women have half the brains, after all.”

 

Froideveaux paled and coughed into his hand as a vague cover-up of a ‘shut up’, at the same time Bedelia shot him an icy, withering look that shut Budge up and made him turn away.

 

Hannibal just looked back at the curly-haired man in the table in front of him. Will was actively engaged in expressing congratulations to Miss Katz as she passed their table, their smiles and held hands beyond polite but friendly. Hannibal smiled in turn, as though infected by the other man’s happiness, but it frayed at the edges when Katz gave him a foxy wink, and Will blushed deeply to the roots of his hair. He quickly turned around and, when he saw Hannibal looking at him, turned his head abruptly away much to Katz’ amusement as she left for her own table, laughing.

 

He frowned at that, wondering what was shared between them, and Hannibal kept looking at the back of his head, willing him to turn around and give him any indicator on his face as to what was wrong. But Will, his shoulders taut and tense, did not face him again.

 

“Careful, Doctor Lecter,” Budge leered at him in whispers, ever like the annoying little snake that he is. “Keep that stare as intense as it is, and that poor boy will have holes in the back of his head soon enough.”

 

“That ‘poor boy’ you speak of is Will Graham,” he said absently, not taking his eyes off him.

 

“Ah, your ‘rival’ of sorts.” There was a pause of understanding, and no doubt Budge was also looking at him. “He looks younger than I thought.”

 

“Did it dash your expectations?”

 

“On the contrary.” Hannibal turned to see Budge’s face split in a lecherous grin, even more vile than the one he had just given Miss Katz. “I like them young, Doctor Lecter.”

 

Disgust and anger rolled in his stomach in a painful lurch, but all he did outwardly was raise his eyebrows at him and, in a clipped tone, said, “Mr. Budge, that sounds incredibly inappropriate.”

 

Budge didn’t bother him with a reply, and they turned back just in time for the host to announce the final awards.

 

“…The ‘Frederick Chilton Award for Up-And-Coming Novelist’,” the blond woman in an ocean blue dress and a plastic ‘Miss America’ pageant smile. “May I present Dr. Frederick Chilton himself to do the honors.”

 

“Thank you, thank you,” Doctor Chilton almost shoo’d her away from the stage as he took the mic. He sighed in exasperation and gave a look to the audience that said ‘Better if I do it, right?’, at the expense of the regular hostess, but no one entertained him save for an old and very drunk agent who had been giggling to himself for the past fifteen minutes. Thoroughly chastised by everyone, he cleared his throat and started his spiel.

 

Will tried his very best to pay attention, but something felt off with Doctor Chilton. He didn’t know why, but the man looked every bit _not_ himself – from the maroon, pin-striped three-piece suit he wore with a royal blue paisley tie, from the ridiculous poff his hair, showing barely the hints of silver by his sideburns, and from the weird inflections and hand gestures varying from too reserved and too animated, he finally clicked as he was saying their names.

 

Chilton was trying to don a second skin, a second persona that was far too large for his body, far too ambitious and, frankly, far out of his league of achievements.

 

“He’s trying to be Lecter,” he mumbled to himself his words lost in the applause of the crowd. Jack’s elbow was a sharp reminder on Will that brought him back to reality, and his pointed stare to him and to the stage was lost in meaning to him. Will didn’t know what to do, his cheeks pinking from embarrassment at being caught not paying attention.

 

“Mister Graham, if you please,” came the low purr beside him. He looked up to see Doctor Lecter, looking down at him, one eyebrow raised and his thin mouth quirked in a polite smile. He had a hand out stretched for Will to take. He gulped his nervousness and took it, and the two of them went to the stage.

 

“Odd of you to ask for my hand,” Will ventured, prying his fingers away the second they were on stage on the excuse of fixing his glasses to avoid the glare of the spotlight from above. He didn’t know if Doctor Lecter knew it was just an excuse, but he was grateful the older man relinquished his hand with no qualms and didn’t think it awkward.

 

“You looked like a goldfish unceremoniously brought out of the water,” he said calmly, hands behind his back. Will envied at the grace and poise that seemed to come to him naturally, while Will only had the option to put his hands in his pockets to avoid fidgeting. “Naturally I had to intervene.”

 

“ _Naturally,”_ he echoed, disbelieving in anger. His hands balled up into fists in his pockets. “Doctor Lecter, do you think yourself polite?”

 

Hannibal looked taken aback of the sudden hostility, and Will felt a small twinge of vindication that made him smirk. “I – “

 

“Now, now, children, let’s not bicker,” Doctor Chilton intervened, looking at them pointedly and laughing with the crowd. “My, my, when they said ‘murder husbands’, I never dreamed that they’d want to _murder each other.”_ Seemingly pleased, he read out a piece of paper to introduce them both very briefly.

 

“The bespectacled man you see beside me is Mister Will Graham,” Chilton said matter-of-factly. Will flushed a little as he heard a little whoop of excitement at the back; no doubt Beverly Katz making known to everyone where her support lied. “Author of the book, _Mirror, Mirror,_ detailing the likes of brazen young heroine, Detective Miriam Lass, and her pursuit of an elusive psychologically-unstable serial killer that takes Detective Lass into a dive in his maddened world, making her question her own capacities.”

 

He looked at him, as though a psychiatrist looking over his spectacles, and merely stated blandly, “Most intriguing, I’m sure.”

 

Will didn’t have a bone of entitlement or misplaced pride in his body. But he nearly snarled at Chilton, this wretched Lecter impersonator, for being so damn _patronizing._

As if sensing the hostility now turned to him, Chilton cleared his throat and introduced Hannibal, with as much familiarity as there is thinly-veiled envy. “And now, Doctor Hannibal Lecter! My, my, I haven’t seen you since I left the field! Well, as you all know, Doctor Lecter was a colleague of mine in the psychiatric field, and has now followed in _my_ footsteps to pursue the world of writing!” He laughed as a woman with a small tray presented him with a silver envelope. “Well, of course, it’s only fitting for you to receive the award with _my_ name on it.”

 

Hannibal fought the urge to frown. Chilton undermining his efforts and accomplishments was one thing; but to very roughly push Will out of the limelight he deserved to be in made him internally gnash his teeth.

 

Chilton didn’t look like he minded, and when he opened the envelope holding the name of the winner, and said his name, Hannibal couldn’t do anything as Will left the stage hurriedly in the chaos of applause and congratulations directed towards him.

 

Forced to smile, receive his trophy, and say the perfunctory thanks, Hannibal lost a few precious moments to look for Will. He craned his head over the crowd, trying to get anything. He checked his table, but it was only Bella there present, politely clapping but attention elsewhere. Jack had disappeared, Hannibal guessed, to follow Will. Try as he might to locate Will himself, he only saw a flash of white-and-gold fabric in the crowd as it disappeared into a sea of people.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal has vague intentions.  
> Bedelia has veiled sentences.  
> Will questions everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Got caught up with studies, grad school is a bitch!

* * *

“Will.” Jack’s usually booming voice followed him out to the hallway, and Will fought the rising urge to groan out loud and stomp his feet, like a kid throwing a temper tantrum. Jack's voice was modulated a little softer, but the thick note of authority was still there, ordering him to stop. 

Well, booming or not, Will was not in any mood to entertain Jack, not in any mood to entertain  _anyone._ He wanted to get out, to disappear, to forget this whole night had ever happened. He wanted to drown his sorrows in whisky, more fingers than the pathetic  _sample size_ that the bartender inside the venue would acquiesce giving him. He knew he had at least two more bottles stashed inside his liquor cabinet. Perhaps he could down half of it until tonight's dumpster fire of an event would finally die down from his mind and be shelved away in the darkest recesses of what was supposed to be his mind palace, placed under lock and key, never to be seen again.

His legs were already taking him to the main door leading him from the sweltering hotness of embarrassment to the cooling freshness of the dark, non-judgmental evening waiting for him outside, but Jack stepped forward and literally put his body between Will and the door. His hands were up, pushing up against Will’s shoulders, forceful only enough to stop him in his tracks. “ _Will, stop this.”_

“Step aside, Jack.” He all but snarled, casting him a glowering look, daring Jack to butt heads with him.  _Anything_ to release the tension. He knew that Jack would tackle a challenge head-on, but he knew the man had reservations especially in public.

His literary agent merely sighed and just gave him a reproachful look. “Let’s calm down, first – “

“ _Calm down?”_ Will’s laugh of incredulity came out as a harsh bark, alien even to his own ears. Was  _the_ Jack Crawford actually telling someone else to  _calm down?_ “Did you see what happened in there, Jack?”

And when the larger man didn’t answer, Will supplied it for him.

“ _Humiliated,_ Jack. I was  _humiliated,_ ” He snarled. He was angry – not much with Chilton, or Hannibal, or Jack or anyone else in the assembly. More to himself – that he’d allowed himself to be dragged to this event, dressed to the nines, when he knew he didn’t belong. He felt like he was a teenager again, dressed in his father's old and too-large suit to the prom. Ridiculous, pathetic-looking. Everybody else in the prom knew it, and here was no different. They didn’t hesitate in needling it to him lest he suddenly forget. “I don’t give a flying fuck if I won the award or not, but I don’t like being made a fool of myself, Jack. Not in front of  _everyone._ ”

“Will – “

“This is  _exactly_ why I don’t do social events. This is _exactly_ why I don't do crowds. I'm always the odd one out and I'd be much happier back at home, alone, with my dogs.” Will scoffed and crossed his arms. “Let me go, Jack. Your little experiment to integrate me to high society has failed. Now it's time to shut down the lab, let the innocent little mice go.”

“I’m not – “

“Mister Graham.” A rich, warm voice wafted over to them from behind Will. He knew exactly who it was, and he felt a sick sense of vindication when he turned around to see Hannibal Lecter, holding his trophy in one hand awkwardly, the other stretched over to him as though Will was going to launch himself and bite him in the face. His face didn’t express much, but his mouth had thinned considerably. Will realized it was because of annoyance; directed at him or not, though, Will could not discern.

Will sneered at him, not exactly happy to see him. “Oh, good, Lecter’s come to gloat.”

There was a small, almost imperceptible flinch from the man, followed by a soft 'tsk' of annoyance. "I assure you, Mister Graham, I've not come here to gloat." 

"Well, you should.  _Congratulations."_

Hannibal's mouth turned down into a minute frown, and Will felt immediately guilty. "As much as I detest insincerity especially in congratulatory talk, I will let this pass."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Lecter," Jack said quickly, holding his hands up to appease the man. "We didn't want to insult you. Congratulations for the Chilton award, anyway. I assure you Will is not doing this because of jealousy."

"I didn't think that for a second," Lecter said, inclining his head and turning to Will."What Chilton did to you was something that should not be forgiven easily."

Will snorted at that, crossing his arms and making his demeanor more like a petulant child. "More like altogether."

Hannibal hummed in thought. "Hm, yes, I agree. But let us forget about tonight. Shall we?"

"Gladly. I was already on my way home, until Jack stopped me."

"Because I  _drove_ you here, remember?" Jack reminded him, eyebrows raised. "How do you think you're going back to Wolf Trap without a car? Are you planning to walk all the way?"

"Wolf Trap, Virginia?" Hannibal mused, tilting his head. "The quickest route is by car, and even then it's an hour away. Mister Graham, I must insist. There's a small, exclusive afterparty that I am inviting you and Mister Crawford to. It's in a small, exclusive lounge a few minutes drive from here." 

"Thank you for the kind invitation, Doctor Lecter, but Jack hasn't agreed to coming along either." He pointed out, but instantly regretted it as Jack began to smirk.

"Oh, not yet." He turned to Hannibal. "Doctor Lecter, we'd love to accept your invitation. Would it be okay to bring along my wife, Bella?"

"Of course, I'd love to meet her. She's looking very well. Glowing, in fact." He replied, smiling even as Will glowered at the both of them for such betrayal. "And I assume, Mister Graham, that this acceptance of my invitation means that you will also be joining us at the afterparty?"

Will sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. God, he just wanted the day to end already, but apparently Hannibal has his hours in the palm of his hands. "Fine, but I'll be drinking the whole evening."

"I'll make sure you're sober enough for socializing," the taller man promised, leading them to the parking lot and pointedly ignoring the loud indignant scoff that came from Will.

* * *

 

To Will's delight, Hannibal had told to him that the afterparty was only for a party of 15 to 20 people. He had expected more, but was obviously feeling better with a fewer turnout. He had invited them himself, Hannibal explained, as they consisted of supporters from his life as a medical practitioner, friends of Bedelia's, and crime genre enthusiasts. "No man filled with  _braggadocio,_ nor insecure weasels, and no fervent admirers," he had assured. Even though he didn't name them, Will knew he was talking about Chilton, Budge, and Froideveaux, who he saw had been circling around Hannibal ever since he arrived to the venue.

Hannibal had driven with Bedelia in his Bentley, leading the way to a black, modern building a few minutes away. Will had felt a bit peeved when he arrived at the parking lot trailing behind Hannibal, as Bedelia welcomed them all with a cold smile. She even gave his outfit a once-over, humming passively as if she was looking at an art piece displayed at a gallery with mild concern.

"I could see why you've piqued his interest," she had said, but before he could get over his initial reaction of stunned confusion, she had already sat down and closed the door to his Bentley, and Jack had whisked him away to his own car before he could even manage to get a word out of his mouth.

"What did you think she meant by that?" He said, finally, after around ten minutes of mentally turning over the scene for any hints of derision or sarcasm from Du Maurier. Granted, she was also legendary, perhaps in the same level as Jack, but she had consistent award-winning authors under her name. Jack built nobodies from the ground up and kept them in the air until they themselves crash-landed like Icarus. Was Bedelia mocking him? For being Jack's supposed mentee? Was she in on an inside joke with Hannibal? Were they really just going to humiliate him more at the afterparty?

"Mean by what?" Bella asked, looking back from the passenger's side as Jack drove, following Hannibal's car. 

"'I could see why you've piqued his interest.'" He mimicked, inflecting like Bedelia did. Jack sniggered under his breath until Bella whacked his shoulder lightly for being rude. "I don't know what she meant by it."

"Well, maybe it has something to do with Doctor Lecter." Bella suggested, stifling a yawn. "He does seem to be invested from you ever since you two... 'shared a moment'... at the bar."

"Stop teasing the boy, Bella, look at him," Jack mumbled, internally amused as he saw Will blushing again from his rearview mirror. "But Will, has he come onto you?"

"What? No, of course not," he denied, leaning back from Bella's questioning glare. "Why would you ask that?"

"Doctor Lecter is probably one of the most charismatic bachelors in Baltimore," he described, pausing a little to signal a turn to follow the Bentley. "Even before he became an author, he was already a charmer. He'd make exclusive dinner parties for his guests, too. Prepares them all by himself." 

Will merely shrugged, but upon reflection he wasn’t really surprised. Hannibal had that air of confidence and grace even outside the cameras. He was the exact opposite of Will and it made him bristle. “You certainly know a lot about him.”

“Any agent and up-to-date author or reader should know the current bestselling authors,” Jack quipped back. “You would have known all about him, too, if you actually attended the events I invite you to.”

 "Fine. What’s his bachelor status got to do with anything?"

"He's the most desirable bachelor out there, and has yet to find someone he's latched his interest onto." Bella raised an eyebrow. "Until you."

Will highly doubted that, although there was something in his head that purred with satisfaction. He shooed whatever it was away. "Are we even sure that Hannibal prefers men?"

"It doesn't matter what he identifies as or who he sleeps with." Jack said with finality, turning the engine off after parking. "Bottomline is, if he's seeking you out, you're bound to get stares and whispers. I'm just making sure you understand."

"I just want to drink and write my books, not marry a socialite." He scoffed, opening the car door to get out. "Besides, a man like that is bound to have something hidden under the surface. I'm not so sure  _my_ interest is  _piqued_ enough to find out what it is." 

But as soon as he said that last sentence, he knew it was a lie. When he met Hannibal's maroon eyes as he and Bedelia waited for all of them to exit the car, he could feel that Hannibal was different. Interesting.  _Unique._ He just kept looking for any indication of ulterior motives in the taller man's faintly smiling face, and it took Jack clearing his throat for him to realize that Will had been staring back unblinkingly, foregoing his usual behavior of looking down so the frame of his glasses prevented eye contact.

"Shall we?" Hannibal asked, sweeping his hand toward the door in invitation. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted this to be longer, but I couldn't find it in me to write a chapter that was too long. Next chapter is the afterparty!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will overthinks.  
> When Will overthinks, he drinks.  
> When he drinks, his mouth moves as fast as his mind runs.  
> Sometimes it gets a little messy.  
> Sometimes his mouth does something strange --  
> Like say weird things,  
> and kiss weird people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, you read that summary right ;)

* * *

In the first five minutes of stepping into the lounge, Bella had yawned for the fourth time in a row. Jack excused them both to find a place for them to sit down. A look of discomfort must have flashed across Will's face, because Jack gave him two pieces of advice. 

"Don't drink too much. And behave yourself."

Those words bounced around the inner walls of Will's mind, and it irked him everytime it came into prominence, which was every few seconds. As if he  _couldn't_ behave at a damn party of barely two dozen people. Two dozen people who have only vaguely heard of him and his work. It was harder for Will to assimilate in a group of people if a solid opinion of him as a person had already been established out of his control. 

But here he was, Will Graham, author of  _Mirror, Mirror._ Perhaps they would have learned that he had lost to Hannibal for the Chilton award. Perhaps not. Perhaps they hadn't even a single clue of who he was, what he does for a living, and how he even got into the afterparty. He couldn't care less if they had. This was better than righting certain prejudices.

Hannibal had invited them to peruse the bar and the space to mingle and chat. "I have an open tab at the bar. Please, help yourself to anything you like and get comfortable." And with that he drifted away like the social butterfly he was, whisked off to different circles of people with greetings of varying degrees of familiarity. Bedelia had disappeared after Hannibal with a soft 'excuse me', leaving Will all alone.

Unchaperoned, he decided that he was a grown man who could handle his liquor and didn't need to be baby-sat by the Crawfords, and especially not by Hannibal Lecter. Will shrugged and headed off to the bar, ordering the glass of whisky that he needed to settle his nerves since early on in the evening past.

* * *

 "Hannibal, a word please." Bedelia's perfume wafted into Hannibal's senses as soon as he heard those words, and the soft touch of her palm to his forearm gave him the out he needed from a drunk Mrs. Reeds who kept describing an antique painting she had recently won at an auction and was insistent on inviting Hannibal to her house in the outskirts of Baltimore to view it. 

"Excuse me, please, my dear Mrs. Reeds," he said, inclining his head in a small bow to the widow, before following Bedelia towards the front of the lounge where a makeshift stage had been built. Hannibal had requested for a live performer, and the lounge had provided a pianist, who was playing a soft, innocent tune as the guests mingled and drank.

He ducked behind a pot of an indoor palm plant, and Bedelia followed suit. By the time he had straightened, his agent had her arms crossed, one hand delicately handling a flute of champagne. "What is it that you want to discuss?"

"Your plans, Hannibal." She said without delay. "What are you thinking, bringing Mr. Graham here?"

He had to smirk a little at that. "Chastising me, Bedelia?"

"I might as well be."

"For the record, I've invited Mr. Graham _and_ Mr. and Mrs. Crawford."

Bedelia waved her hand at the mention of the Crawfords with a matching eyeroll. "You've been behaving strangely as soon as you've seen Will from the Ball." She raised an eyebrow. "I've told you to behave."

"And I am indeed in my best behavior." Hannibal replied. "If I may be honest, Mr. Graham intrigues me. I've read his books and thought to myself that he has a good mind. A mind I want to delve into. When I met him at the bar, he opened up a little, but no more. He was holding himself back. I am only interested in hearing what he has to say."

"Have you not realized he is tight-lipped? He rarely speaks, unless angered."

"He only speaks if it is right to do so," he corrected. "Will Graham doesn't speak unless it brings weight into the conversation."

Bedelia raised an eyebrow at that. "And you think  _you_ will be able to make him speak?"

"I do." Hannibal hummed confidently, drinking from his own glass of wine. "As I have said, our conversation at the bar was brief but it did open my eyes to a version of Will Graham that only a handful see, and even fewer appreciate."

"What is your endgame with this, Hannibal? Surely you're not playing cat-and-mouse with Mister Graham only because you are bored."

"I am not sure what you mean," Hannibal lied easily, smiling at her from the rim of his wineglass. Bedelia did not smile back, still unimpressed.

* * *

 By Will's third glass of whisky, Hannibal's stress and worry levels were parallel.

"No, no, you've got it completely wrong," Will said for possibly the fifth time to an increasingly irate Mr. Burns, whose short stature made his quickly increasing temper more comical than it really was in real life. "Miriam Lass couldn't  _possibly_ be the killer. That would be absurd,  _highly_ absurd."

Mr. Burns wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He had already set down his half-empty glass of port, forgotten because of the heated exchange. "But think about it! How on earth do you even want to progress with a protagonist such as her with a mental capacity steadily declining?"

" _Mental capacity?"_ Will laughed in his face, looking at Hannibal for support as if to say, 'Hear what this buffoon has to say'. "Miriam is not being _dumbed down_ because of her susceptibility to a criminal mastermind. In fact, it's downright insulting for you to even insinuate such a thing --"

"I think, perhaps, I should intervene before our dear Will here completes his transformation into a tsunami siren," Hannibal said, even physically coming in between his two guests. He apologized profusely in behalf of Will to Mr. Burns, and told him to please help himself to a fresher glass of port at the bar before he swiftly tugged Will to the side.

"Stop, stop, you're spilling the drink everywhere," Will grumbled, tugging his arm free and glaring up at Hannibal. Before he could protest it, Will tipped his head back and drank the remaining contents of his glass. Hannibal had a brief moment of being transfixed on the expanse of pale, unblemished skin on Will's neck before he was distracted by some hissing from the bespectacled man. " _God,_ what  _is_ that?"

"You, my dear Will, have just drank three fingers of a  _sipping_ whisky." Hannibal sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment to ground him.

Jack had approached him half an hour earlier to excuse himself; Bella was feeling tired and he had to drive her back. "I asked Will to come with me, but he's apparently preoccupied," he had said, motioning to Will who was introducing himself to an amused Mrs. Reeds. "Doctor Lecter, I'm really very sorry, but I'll need to ask you for a favor. Please keep an eye on Will. If he gets too drunk, get him on a cab to Wolf Trap and I'll pay you back for the damages."

Thoroughly amused, he had accepted. He thought it was brazen and definitely Crawford-esque for Jack to ask him to baby-sit his mentee, but he kept quiet about it. Tonight was playing into his plans perfectly. He had to admit, he wanted a more verbal side of Will Graham to make an appearance tonight. He knew Will had a snark and a sharp wit, but what he didn't expect was the keen urge to fight. Will was raw where Hannibal was refined, however, and he could see potential. For what, Hannibal doesn't know yet. He had to keep digging.

Will was looking up at him weirdly, and Hannibal had to raise an eyebrow to prod him into saying what he was thinking. "Did you just call me 'Will'?"

"Ah." Hannibal hummed, palms up. He had been caught. "Yes, I'm afraid my tongue slipped. I'm terribly sorry if it was too familiar."

"No, no." Will shook his head, and Hannibal was surprised to see a small smile grace his cherubic face. "I like it. It's nice."

He had done something that he would consider unspeakably rude and arrogant if someone else did it to him, but Will appreciated it. _Fascinating._  "You don't mind being called by your first name by someone you just met?"

"Not if it's you." He replied, tilting his head. His smile had grown coquettish. 

Hannibal mirrored him almost unconsciously, but his response didn't escape him in the slightest. "And why is that?"

"Partners-in-crime need to be very familiar with their other half." Will hummed and leaned back against the wall, holding up his empty glass between them. "Isn't that right,  _Hannibal?"_

Will, Hannibal realized, was perhaps the only person he didn't mind calling him by his first name without invitation. He merely raised his own wineglass in acknowledgement. "That it is."

Before Will could sneak out of the conversation and order yet another glass, Hannibal held onto his forearm to stop him. "But perhaps it'd be wiser for you not to drink any more," he continued. 

"I'll be fine, Jack's driving me home," Will mumbled, trying to wave his arm away.

"Mister and Mrs. Crawford have already left, Will." Hannibal reminded him, and the shorter man frowned in confusion. "They left half an hour ago."

Will paused for a full minute, looking down at his shoes with a pout as if racking his brains of any memory that the Crawfords bade him farewell. He came up empty. "No, they didn't."

"I assure you they have," he said, squeezing his forearm. "But he entrusted you to me. I suggest you sober up and accompany me. I'd like to introduce you properly to my colleagues."

"Showing me off already," Will was mumbling. Hannibal didn't know what he was talking about, but he shrugged it off and went round to his social circles. 

To his satisfaction, all of his invited peers were behaving quite well. Although stand-offish to Will because they didn't know who he was or what he was doing here, that behavior changed immediately as soon as Hannibal introduced Will to the group. He did notice that Will stood up straighter, his eyes sharpened, and he started to speak with more clarity and grace. It was mesmerizing to Hannibal, but he didn't know why until he had a quick comparative analysis of Will as he started speaking and using words he hadn't before.

 _Social mimicry._ Hannibal watched in awe as Will teased back and forth with Mrs. Wollowith, returned a flowery compliment from Dr. Yang, and laughed out loud as portly Mr. Hughes roared out a belly of laughter. He had studied it, and have seen people execute mimicry in social situations, but Will's case was unique. It was as if a switch had flipped, and Will had many faces to show back to all of the people surrounding him.

But no, that wasn't the case at all. Only when his colleagues dispersed, and Mrs. Wollowith patted his arm and thanked him for introducing him to 'dear, charming Will', and Will faced him and his big smile dialled down to the same coy smile he had shown to Hannibal did he finally understand. Will wasn't showing faces or masks; he was more of a mirror. There was no essence of Will Graham that he showed when he reflected back other people in his immediate surroundings. He shut off his own persona completely and let society use him as a mirror until it was satisfied, and he'd revert back to his old self. 

This new information kept tossing and turning inside Hannibal's mind. He absently reached for Will's hand and belatedly noticed that the other man hadn't moved it out of his grasp. He smiled at him warmly. He already so badly wanted Will on his back, naked, on his lounge in his office or on a cold metal gurney, prepped and ready for Hannibal to disassemble and pick apart.

He reigned himself in with a small inhale, and merely murmured, "Extraordinary."

* * *

"I'm fairly certain they're together."

Bedelia almost choked on a glass of port and immediately set it back down.

Gossiping? _Really?_ Granted, she couldn't help that people would talk, lips loosened by libation and leisure. For her to expect secrecy and Hannibal-level decency from the man's guests himself was naive, but she was disappointed nonetheless. These people were more or less handpicked by Hannibal as colleagues, important enough to be handed invitations to a party aside from his exclusive and famous dinner parties at his Baltimore home. She'd have at least expected them to be a bit more preoccupied by other things instead of the life of another one of their circle. Granted, Hannibal was an enigma and rumors circled him as if they were moths attracted to a bright flame. 

She turned around nonchalantly, looking over to see who was doing the talking. It was Mrs. Reeds, pouting a little, sharing a standing table with a thin woman with lipstick as bright as her shocking mane of red curly hair. Bedelia didn't recognize her, but shrugged it off as one of Hannibal's distant connections.

"Do you think so?" Mrs. Reeds said, the smallest whines almost imperceptible in her tone. "Shame, Hannibal is a fine man."

"I'm fairly certain. Look at them." Bedelia followed their gazes and unmistakably saw Hannibal and Will. The taller man said something they couldn't catch. Will leaned up to whisper something in his ear. It was something to Hannibal's liking, as their small smiles morphed into laughter that was only shared between them. Had Bedelia not been paying attention, she would've certainly missed how Hannibal took Will's hand in his own, and Will's inaction to move his hand away.

"They do look quite happy." The widow acquiesced. "Who's he, by the way?"

"That, I believe, is Will Graham," the redhead hummed thoughtfully, picking at a small plate of cheeses in front of her. "He's a brilliant author, as well, and in the same genre as Hannibal."

" _Graham,_ hm?" A thin, elderly man added, joining their little gossiping circle. "I've read his book. Brilliant man, that is."

"They're quite the pair." Mrs. Reeds said. "And with minds like that, can you imagine what must go on in their heads?"

As if on cue, Bedelia and the rest of them watched as Will pulled Hannibal away from the crowd and through a door leading away from the main hall. Nobody around them even took notice as the door closed behind them quietly.

"Quite." The anonymous redhead said, fairly amused. "I believe those two might be looking for a 'library' to 'discuss literary matters'."

As both of them laughed politely, Bedelia excused herself and walked out into the crisp night air. She had foregone looking for Hannibal and berating him for such behavior when an idea weaselled into her mind. 

Without skipping a beat, she opened her purse to get her phone and a thin card-holder. She opened the latter, flitting through dozens of important names, until she arrived at the card she was looking for. It was battered, folded, and dog-eared, but she hoped to any beings above that the number on it still worked. She indulged herself in smoking a thin cigarette, the cool menthol sensation wafting into her olfactory senses as she dialled the number on the card, waiting with bated breath as it rang.

* * *

 

"So what you're saying is, you make sure that no one sees you." 

"Correct." Will said, leaning back on the wall with his arms across his chest. An easy smile was plastered on his face. "It's not something I can control... I think. I see too much, Hannibal. Sometimes I just shut down that part of me and just reflect back to society what they want to see until they go away willingly. I find that it's the easiest and most passive way for them to leave as soon as possible without actually telling them to."

Hannibal was pleased Will was finally loose-lipped, but he couldn't help himself. A flash of his fantasy crossed his mind again, this time with Will in his office flitting through the wall-to-wall bookshelves. He quickly dismissed it to focus more on Will of the present -- tie loosened for a bit of fresh air to cool his skin, his facial features illuminated by the moonlight as they escaped the crowd inside. 

"May I offer some advice?" He asked, leaning with his back against the balustrade to mimic Will's relaxed posture directly across him. When the other man nodded, Hannibal continued. "I believe that you  _can_ control your mimicry. Although you wouldn't want to."

Will scoffed. "Why would I not want to control something?"

"Because if you could, that would mean you had an ulterior motive." He tilted his head. "You're not afraid to see too much of another person and endanger your stable position in society. I believe that you are afraid someone will see right through you." When Will tensed, he knew he was correct. "And they might not like what they see."

"Are you saying I'm a rotten person at my core?" Will asked defensively. 

"Not at all. Merely that you are mistaking your fears." At this point, Will was puzzled. "What I just said was what was in your mind. You think people are out to skin you out of the mirror suit that you made, and that they'd be afraid of the things you keep close to your core. When in reality it is you who is afraid to look into yourself."

Hannibal offered a placating gesture -- hands open, palms up, welcoming. "That is why you keep it close. Not because you fear what people might think of you. But because you fear what you might become."

After a minute of silence, Will burst out in laughter. Hannibal's smile faltered ever so slightly, and he retracted his hands. He schooled his face back into an immaculate mask as Will's laughter subsided.

"Doctor Lecter,  _please,"_ Will started, still gasping for air. "Do you really think so?"

"I do," came Hannibal's reply.

"You think that I have something inside me?" Will's smile looked feral in the moonlight. Hannibal wanted to take note of it to remember it for later. "Something dangerous? Murderous? Psychopathic?"

"All I know is that you are repressing your most primal self." He stepped forward and lightly pushed Will's shoulders back, flush against the wall. He looked into his eyes, preventing Will from laughing or looking away. He had had enough of his delaying tactics. "Who are you, really, Will Graham?"

"You really want to know?" Will replied playfully.

He was close enough that Hannibal could feel his whisky breath as he talked. He hummed and nodded, not letting him go. "Yes, I do."

Will leaned in closer, so that his mouth was almost at his ear once more. Hannibal resisted the urge to sniff and scent him, the crook of his neck, the perfume of his curls. "Will..."

The kiss was unexpected. Somehow, Will's lips found themselves on his. Hannibal instinctively closed his eyes, savoring the feel of soft, velvet lips on his and reciprocating, before Will leaned back, smiling sweetly.

"I'm the type of person who will take you by surprise," he said, tilting his head as if to non-verbally ask if Hannibal was impressed.

He laughed in response. It was not the response he was expecting, but inside he couldn't help but purr in satisfaction at the pace they were moving. Will Graham was an extraordinary person, and it excited Hannibal to no end. "I'll remember not to underestimate you."

* * *

 The event hall had a guestlist of 25 people. There was a pianist, two bartenders, three sanitation staff, and five personnel going on rounds for a grand total of 36 people accounted for.

A 37th person was snooping around, blending into the crowd and unaccounted for. 

The person had one specific purpose gatecrashing an exclusive party such as this.

"Bingo," said Freddie Lounds, snapping an intimate scene between Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham from a balcony a few feet away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will defending Miriam Lass is me defending my OCs
> 
> I WILL THROW SOME HANDS--


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal makes sure to leave a good impression on Will. It may have worked a little too well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E material at the last third or so part of this chapter! Will be changing the fic tags accordingly!

* * *

Will woke up on his bed, wearing silk pyjamas that were slightly too big for him. What does he have? Nausea, cottonmouth, and a pounding headache. What does he not have? Any idea of how he got home, how he got dressed, what time it was, or a clear memory of what happened the night before.

“Mother…” he swore, his voice naturally slipping into an accent he had had from his early years growing up in Louisiana. He sat up, but he immediately regretted his decision. The nausea and headache combination didn’t match at all, yet they came hand -in-hand, in twos and in waves, threatening Will to duck down and expel whatever contents his stomach had had. 

And he did, only to find a basin he belatedly noted he seldom used, placed strategically on the side of the bed he had rolled over to. Once his stomach and esophagus had decided enough was enough, and he could only throw out bile, Will straightened to lean forward, pressing his forehead on the wall. He whimpered to himself as he felt the cool surface, soothing his feverish skin.

After a few minutes of inaction (or had it been hours? Had Will inadvertently fallen asleep? He couldn’t know, as he had no sense of time to compare the ‘then’, only the ‘now’), his phone started vibrating and beeping in the subtle alarm he had programmed to wake him up at 8 AM every morning, at the latest.

He fumbled for a bit, reaching for it as it clattered noisily on his bedside table, to snooze it. When he finally did so, blinking blearily, he found four things that were most certainly not there before he had left his house: a glass of water, an aspirin tablet, a wrapped lunchbox, and a folded paper.

Will went for the aspirin tablet and water first, gulping them down in one breath. He would usually dry-swallow aspirin tablets when his headaches became frequent and agonizing, but that hadn’t happened in a while. He certainly didn’t want whatever it was he had flaring up again. He unwrapped the lunchbox, not really sure what to expect, but he could see through the opaque lid that it was some kind of dark meat, eggs, and what appeared to be rice.

Now, he had to frown, as he suspiciously picked up the paper. It wasn’t light, per se – thick, more like the type of material to make high-end card invitations with, in a shade of alabaster white. He flipped it open, read the contents as quickly as possible.

 

_Dearest Will,_

_Thank you for indulging me last night._

_No doubt, you have made a good impression._

_I have left a small token of my appreciation; you may consider this as a form of apology for the hangover I’m sure you must be nursing by the time you wake and read this._

_In the case you don’t consider it as such, then I shall endeavor to make amends with you until you are satisfied._

_I look forward to meeting with you again._

_You may keep the clothes I’ve lent you until then._

_Signed,_

_H.L._

Will didn’t need to guess who H.L. was. The looping handwriting, the amber ink, and the meticulous nib of what Will guessed was a very expensive fountain pen, already narrowed it down to less than a handful of people in his life. Only one of them had a name whose initials were “H.L.”

‘ _Thank you for indulging me last night.’_

What exactly did that mean? Will hugged a knee close to his chest and leaned his forehead on it, trying to rack his brain for anything connected with Hannibal. Memories came to him slowly, vague and blurry – of Hannibal politely laughing, Hannibal offering him a glass, Hannibal introducing him to various circles of friends and colleagues.

Hannibal’s facial structure under the moonlight, creating dark shadows that cut a stark contrast on his face. His suit impeccably fitted, tapering his powerful, towering form to the waist. Hannibal leaning in, an impressed smirk on his lips. Will remembered looking at him from across the balustrade, the words that they had said to each other lost in the deep recesses of his mind.

All he could remember was feeling bothered, because here was Hannibal, immaculate in grace and poise, the polar opposite of ruffled, gruff Will Graham. He wanted to ruffle his feathers up, make him look surprised, do _anything_ in his power to break that mask he puts on his face, because surely, _surely,_ such a perfect man doesn’t exist in this world in the form of flesh – merely in busts and statues, carved out of marble and placed upon the steps of temples to the gods of great and ancient civilizations.

But what did he mean? _Indulging? A good impression?_ With the tone from the letter, it meant that whatever he had planned to do, it succeeded in making Hannibal slip up. But he didn’t know what he could possibly do to even warrant such praise of it.

Then, out of nowhere, a memory finally weaseled into his mind: not visual, but a sensory one: body heat, hands on his waist, velvet lips and short breaths that smelled like rich, red wine.

“ _Fuck,”_ he whispered to himself, then ran to the bathroom as fast as his nausea would allow, to check himself in the bathroom mirror.

The first thing he noticed was that he looked like shit. Which was expected, really, given how bad his hangover was. He frowned at the silk pyjamas; one look at it confirmed that the material was way above his paygrade, simply too much for him to afford. He faintly noticed what seems to be a crest embroidered on his shirt pocket, but the design didn’t ring any bells. He tried reading the inscription as well, but his efforts failed upon realization that it wasn’t written in English.

Will took the pyjamas off slowly, sighing in relief as he did a physical “inventory check” on his body – no scratches, no love bites, no bruising of any kind. The only soreness he could feel was in his head, throat, and stomach. Every other body part felt perfectly fine.

“Okay, so I didn’t sleep with Lecter,” he mumbled, puzzled over his pouting expression. He didn’t know whether to be happy or sad about the fact that he had gone to bed alone, let alone had been dressed by his so-called rival and polar opposite, who he had just kissed like a teenager trying to fumble his way to first base with his prom date.

Shaking the thoughts away, he made himself drink more water from the tap and wash his face to try and splash the sleep out of his body. He was about to exit the bathroom when he saw the discarded pyjamas on the counter. After a few minutes of hesitation, he put them on again before trudging back to his bed. He was embarrassed about having them in the first place, sure, but wearing them made him feel like he was floating on a damn cloud.

Will sniffed and moaned his appreciation when he opened the lunchbox, because it smelled _heavenly,_ and tasted just as good. The lemon, the soy sauce, the garlic and eggs blended well to fill him with protein and carbs and everything he needed to jumpstart the day, with an extra layer of greasiness that helped abate his receding headache. He couldn’t place the meat, but he didn’t really care – it was chewy, dark and savory. The only thing that mattered to him now was that it was delicious and his stomach seemed to agree.

Will remembered Jack telling him about Lecter’s famous dinner parties, and if this was the kind of quality of food that was being served at all events, he would have to drive up to Baltimore more often. _No other reason,_ he told himself, trying to convince himself. By the way he felt his cheeks flare up, he didn’t think any reasoning was effective.

Just as he dug into yet another spoonful, his phone rang. He was too distracted to check the caller ID, only answering it and pressing the button to turn on the speakerphone. “Hello?”

There was a brief moment of silence before Jack finally spoke. “…Is this Will?”

Speaking of the devil… “Yeah, Jack?”

“…Are you alright?”

Odd question. Will blinked for a bit, wondering why he was warranted such suspicion. “Yes…?”

“Is that a question or an answer?”

Both?” he tried, and Jack’s annoyance was audible in a light growl that usually escaped the man when Will teased him. “What’s going on?”

“You _never_ answer on the first ring. On the first call.”

“Oh.” Will blinked and checked his phone. There really were no other notifications for messages or calls; just the one that Jack was doing right now. “Uh, well, things changed."  
  
“I’m sure they have,” Jack grumbled.

“Why’d you call?”

“You’re on the news.” His agent said, going back to his gruff, business voice. “Do you have a copy of today’s _The Twiddler?”_  

“ _The Twiddler,_ Jack, really?” Will scoffed in disdain, talking around another mouthful of Lecter’s delicious breakfast as the image of a small, mind-numbing tabloid cropped up in his head. “Are we counting tabloid rags as news now?”

“Well, it’s selling as fast as possible today,” Jack countered. Will heard some paper-flipping on Jack’s end; no doubt, he had gotten a copy himself. “Because of what’s on the front page. Listen to this: ‘ _Baltimore Bachelor no more?_ ’ Do you have any idea about this?”

He gulped down his food, audible and mightily guilty-sounding. He was trying not to think of the kiss that he so obviously started, that Hannibal had so obviously reciprocated. Trying not to think about the pyjamas, the food, the letter that meant that both of them had so obviously enjoyed what had transpired last night. What he thought of _that,_ he didn’t know. “Er… no?" 

There was an exasperated sigh from Jack, a beat of silence, then, “…take care of yourself.”

“Excuse me?” Will stammered, because that was _not_ what he was expecting. Perhaps a verbal lashing, of which Jack had done to him countless of times whether in person or on the phone.

“I said take care of yourself.” Jack repeated, in a much surer voice than earlier. “Look, all I’m saying is keep your head on your shoulders. I can’t say anything yet, but I _do_ have a pending proposition.”

“A pendi-? What are you even talking about?”

“Like I said, _not now._ ” Jack huffed. “Don’t comment on _The Twiddler,_ but if I play my cards right, any press is good press.”

Will frowned, placing his empty spoon back into the lunchbox. “Good press? Wait, do you mean…?”

“Yeah, well, Strimmer from _Kilometre Un_ just called and told me _both_ of your books have been sold out by people who asked him if you two were the couple from _The Twiddler,”_ Jack said, bringing to mind Rem Strimmer, the supply manager at _Kilometre Un_ bookstore. “Now just keep a low profile, maybe don’t do anything stupid." 

“Like what?”

“Like fall in love with a certain ex-doctor-turned-crime-writer from Baltimore,” Jack teased, sniggering as Will groaned in embarrassment. “Trust me on this. Not yet. Give me a day or two, and then I decide if you can shift from writing thrillers to romance.”

“Barf, and pass,” Will grumbled, thanked him and hung up. He buried his face on his pillow, feeling the heat in his cheeks decidedly _not_ abating.

This was good. This was good news. Some tabloid just upped his sales, although he wasn’t too keen on the amount of hate he would no doubt receive from all genders in the spectrum because he had the audacity to lock lips with Hannibal Lecter.

_I look forward to meeting you again._

Somehow, Will wasn’t looking forward to seeing the man again. He didn’t like how he seemed to pull something from deep inside Will, something dark and sinister that purred in delight everytime the man opened his mouth, because _finally,_ someone understood him from the very little he showed. Whether it was because of Hannibal’s previous medical experiences or a rare moment of clarity when two wavelengths finally fell into rhythm, he didn’t really know. But he was steadfastly banking on the latter.

He didn’t know how to control himself around Lecter; the mirror that he had carefully placed so society would be satisfied with what they saw and leave him alone somehow didn’t work with Hannibal. It felt _eery,_ but somehow _liberating –_ to be _seen._

Will had spent so much time restricting himself that he didn’t know what to do with the freedom he was suddenly being faced. It _terrified_ him, scared him of the endless possibilities this could go. On the one hand, he could take Hannibal up on his open invitation, for a repeat performance in the near future. Let him see more of himself than what he showed to the man last night. Let him get a small taste, a sampler, let him decide if he was worth keeping.

Something hot coiled up in his gut, ravenous and rearing its ugly head. It was anger, and envy, and lust roiled into one, coveting the very image of the pristine Doctor Lecter roughed up by his own hands. He _wanted_ Lecter to want him, wanted him all to himself. World be damned.

He shifted his legs, groaning when he found that all of that musing on his damned rival had diverted that warmth – from his head, to his chest, to his stomach, and straight down to his nether regions, where his cock had so obviously started tenting his bottoms.

“Get a grip on yourself, Graham,” he whispered, rolling over onto his stomach and burying his face on the pillow. He could still feel his erection pressing up against his thigh and stomach, straining under the waistbands of his tight boxers. 

“ _Let me see.”_ A familiar, accented voice lilted into his mind’s ear, and his eyelids fluttered shut. Will imagined maroon eyes, so deep that it looked black under moonlight. A tantalizing tongue flashing in between sharp incisors. “ _Come on, dear boy, don’t be shy.”_

Will’s hand snaked downward, tugging his pants and underwear down to free his hard member. Fingers grazing lightly down the shaft, into the fine hairs, cupping his balls, trailing back upwards almost in reverence. “ _That’s it, now tell me what you want._ ”

“Hannibal,” he mumbled, biting his lip as his hand wrapped around his cock, squeezing it a little. Will let his imagination fly, pretending long, tapered fingers were wrapped around him instead of his own. “Please –“

“ _Show me how badly you want it,”_ Pretend-Hannibal purred, and Will shivered just as the voice lowered to a whisper. He began to rut into his hand, the tip of his cock rubbing against the silky material of his borrowed pyjamas. Every movement made Will’s head spin, and he subconsciously took shifted his top upwards, sniffing and biting and moaning into the fabric that smelled like luxury and wine and familiar, dark musk. “ _Good, very good boy._ ” 

Will whimpered into the cloth, which was doing fuck-all to stifle the pleasured moans and sounds escaping from his mouth and throat, guttural in their lack of censure. Pretend-Hannibal was currently licking his lips, merely holding onto Will as he did all the work. From time to time, fingers would brush against the tip, teasing his hole, which had become slick and weeping with a mixture of pre-come and a light sheen of sweat. 

“ _Lustful little minx, you’ll be the death of me. I can’t just watch you without having a little taste.”_ And Will imagined Hannibal leaning over him, pressing his body up against Will’s quivering form, and licking a stripe up his neck. He imagined his cool saliva contrasting with the heat of his flushed skin, how Will would arch up into his body in response.

“Hannibal, I’m so close,” Will whined, pitifully, his hips moving back and forth more desperately, arrhythmically. He could feel heat at the base of his stomach, threatening to burst. “A little more..!” 

And Will saw white, his body jolting as the sheer force of his orgasm racked his body. He imagined Hannibal now, in his mind’s eye, growling in delight as he saw Will come undone under him, just by his stationary hand, which he now used to stroked him in earnest, milking the man of each and every drop.

“ _Well done,_ ” Pretend-Hannibal whispered, and Will took his hand away as he fell back against the bed from where he had subconsciously canted his hips and ass up into the air. He panted into the pillow, teeth releasing the silk top he was wearing. He pulled his hand out of his pants, which felt sticky. He’d have to take care of that later.

Spent, and hazy from such a vivid fantasy, Will fell back to a fitful sleep, dreaming of a man in a sharp suit and a paisley tie, sitting on a marble throne, waiting for Will to throw himself onto its steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give kudos and leave comments if you think Hannibal should let Will keep his damn pyjamas ;^)


End file.
